193 CHAPTER 193
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CHAPTER 193
294 AC
POV THIRD PERSON
The Winterfell's grand hall was filled with an air of anticipation as the time arrived for Little Rickon to be adorned with gifts. The noble guests, dressed in their finest attire, mingled with the Stark family members, each bearing their offerings for the young Stark. It was a tradition that showcased the unity and camaraderie among the North's noble houses.
Among those present, Aermir stood with a confident smile, holding a burlap sack filled with an assortment of candies. The sugar cane initiative he had undertaken had blossomed, providing a unique opportunity to introduce a novel delight to the people of the North. Hard and soft candies, carefully crafted from the sugarcane's sweetness, sparkled enticingly within the sack.
As Aermir approached the young Rickon, the boy's eyes widened with curiosity. Although the child still maintained his distance, the glint of intrigue in his gaze was unmistakable. Aermir still didn't understand why this child was acting like this, but he aimed to bridge the gap with a warm smile and friendly demeanor.
"Rickon," Aermir began, kneeling down to be on eye level with the young Stark, "I have something special for you." He reached into the sack and produced a small, glistening piece of candy. "This is a candy, a sweet treat. It's something to make you smile."
Rickon eyed the candy with a mixture of curiosity and uncertainty, his small hand hesitating before he reached out to accept it. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he examined the treat, appreciating its vibrant colors and sweet scent.
Lord Stark, observing the interaction with a fond smile, approached the scene. "Aermir, it seems you've piqued Rickon's interest with those candies," he remarked, his tone warm and welcoming.
Aermir stood up and nodded. "I hoped he might find these candies intriguing. Our sugar cane endeavor has proven successful, and I thought to share its sweetness."
Rickon, his shyness momentarily forgotten in the face of this tempting gift, looked up at Aermir. "Thank you," he said softly, but Aermir could still see the distrustfulness in his actions.
As the gift-giving continued, Aermir's candies were received with various degrees of enthusiasm. Some of the noble guests were clearly intrigued by the novelty of the confections, while others held onto their more traditional preferences for honeyed treats.
Among the guests, Sansa approached Aermir with a gracious smile.
"These candies are a splendid idea, Aermir," she complimented. "You've managed to bring a touch of novelty to our feasting table."
Aermir' smiled.
"I'm glad they are being appreciated. It's a small way to contribute to the festivities."
As the celebrations continued, Aermir found himself in the midst of animated conversations, answering questions about the candies and their production process. Almost everyone knew how to melt sugar, but Aermir was not telling them about pulling candy and how to air it out. In the midst of the revelry, the small pouches of candies found their new owners.
...
The gifting ceremony had woven an atmosphere of celebration throughout Winterfell's Great Hall as nobles mingled in a joyful symphony of dance, laughter, and camaraderie. As the evening wore on, the halls resonated with the melodies of merriment, and Aermir found himself right in the midst of it all, reveling in the company of old friends Robb and Jon.
With a tankard of ale in hand, Aermir engaged in light-hearted banter with Robb and Jon. Tales of their childhood escapades and mischievous exploits flowed freely, punctuated by bursts of laughter and shared memories. Amid the joviality, Aermir's eyes occasionally scanned the crowd, noting the interplay of emotions among the attendees.
Among them was Theon Greyjoy, a figure sitting right next to them, but Theon's sense of isolation was growing, fueled by the unspoken fact that he was not privy to the shared histories and deep bonds that united Aermir, Robb, and Jon.
Aermir, with a calculated grin, seized every opportunity to bring up their childhood escapades, stories that effectively pushed Theon to the periphery of their conversations. He knew well the resentment that brewed within Theon, a resentment that often emerged in the form of bravado and misplaced arrogance directed at him.
It wasn't long before Theon's simmering frustration boiled over. With his chin held high, fueled by liquid courage, he approached Aermir with a forced swagger. "Upstart, boy," he sneered, his words laden with thinly veiled disdain. "Playing lord and protector in our precious Winterfell. A fine joke, indeed."
Aermir's gaze shifted from his tankard to meet Theon's audacious stare. There was a glint in his eyes, a mixture of amusement and something more. "Theon Greyjoy," he replied, his tone a blend of casualness and cutting truth, "it appears the winter that came onto your house has not washed away your inflated sense of self-importance."
Theon's chest swelled with indignation. "You're nothing more than a common wildling who stumbled into the noble halls of the North," he retorted, his voice dripping with mockery. "I, on the other hand, am a noble heir, a foster of House Stark."
Aermir's lips quirked upward in a knowing smile, and he cast a ruthless look at the little squid. Robb and Jon looked at Theon with eyes full of pity. The Stark boys spoke volumes with their eyes– Theon had fucked up.
The joyous ambiance seemed to shatter like glass, the celebratory symphony grinding to an abrupt halt as the tension between Theon and Aermir permeated the air. You could hear a pin drop in this silence. The stares of those gathered shifted from dancing and laughter to the unexpected confrontation.
Aermir's voice rang out, firm and unyielding. "Theon Greyjoy, it seems your misplaced arrogance has blinded you to reality. House Stark may have welcomed you, fostered you, but you remain but a hostage, a pawn in your oathbreaker father's game."
Theon's façade of bravado wavered, his posture faltering. He bristled at Aermir's words, the truth they held cutting deeper than any blade. His foster brothers, Robb and Jon, regarded him with a mixture of disappointment and pity – emotions that stung more than he cared to admit. It especially hurt more seeing the pity-filled eyes of Jon; the bastard was pitying him, the heir of Greyjoy.
Aermir's voice carried an air of finality. "Lord Stark treated you as part of the family, a son, but you were always a spare of a spare. The son of a traitor was left as a hostage because your father's betrayal left him no choice. Your father would rather give your sister his seat than you. You are the heir of nothing and always will be. You will always be the leftover son."
"I am the Lord of Moat Cailin, Lord Commander of the Templar and the Paladins. Who are you? What power do you have other than your yapping tongue?"
Theon's face contorted with a mixture of rage and humiliation. He had believed himself a key player in the Stark family, a notion now shattered before the watchful eyes of Winterfell. Aermir's words had stripped away the veneer of false identity, revealing the harsh truth that lingered beneath.
Theon's lips parted, his retort caught in his throat as Aermir's voice, icy and laced with a dangerous edge, sliced through the charged atmosphere. The Stark hall seemed to hold its breath, the air heavy with anticipation as Theon hesitated, his pride warring with the realization that he stood on the precipice of dire consequences.
Aermir's unwavering gaze bore into Theon, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. "Should your whiny squid voice grace my ears again," he continued, his words like sharp blades, "I promise you, Theon Greyjoy, your existence will be reduced to nothing more than a bloody pulp."
Theon's face paled, his bluster and defiance evaporating in the face of Aermir's palpable threat. The weight of the stares from all corners of the hall pressed upon him. He felt the gravity of his situation – the stark reality that Aermir's words were not to be taken lightly.
At that moment, Theon was keenly aware that he had pushed his luck too far. Aermir's eyes glinted with a kind of ferocity that sent a shiver down his spine, and Theon understood that his actions had ignited a volatile spark that could lead to his downfall.
Theon cast a quick, sidelong glance at Lord Stark, searching for any inkling of intervention or protection. Yet, even Lord Stark's countenance bore a solemnity that underscored the severity of the situation. Theon realized that he was entirely on his own.
Defeated and deflated, Theon turned on his heel, his earlier bravado crumbling beneath the weight of Aermir's unyielding resolve. With every step towards the exit, he felt the eyes of the hall upon him, the heavy weight of judgment that bore witness to his prideful folly.
Aermir's voice pursued him, a final, biting echo that lanced through the tension-filled air.
"Remember this, little squid," he called after Theon's retreating figure,
"Should your cowardly gossiping ever find its way to my ears again, I will rip your craven tongue."
At this moment, Lord Stark interjected and said,
"Lord Drasil, you shouldn't be so heavy-handed with our little guest. It looks like he is drunk or confused. If not, he wouldn't dare to besmirch the name of a Northern Lord."
He signaled the soldiers to escort him out of the hall. Theon's departure was marked by the palpable silence of the hall, a silence that spoke volumes of the consequences of his ill-advised challenge. After five minutes, most noble had forgotten about the squid and continued their merry ways.
